Shatner's Bassoon

Whoring for Hits

2007-04-26T17:02:14Z

The latest episode of Ungrateful Dead is up! For those who don't know, it's my webcomic. I write the scripts, and my good friend Wayne Goldson does the stellar artwork.

Here's the bumpf:

Tim Tyler, corporate drone, dreams of becoming a Rock Star. With help from the Ghost of Jimi Hendrix, and a host of others, his dreams may well come true!

Come read strip 4, join the forums, and tell your friends!

---

I realise this post is little more than blatant hit-whoring. Thing is, I'm struggling for LJ topics. It really has been a while, and my chops are rusty.

So tell me... what should I write about? Anything and everything considered. Let me know in the comments, and hopefully you can help kick-start my LJBrain.

Craig

---

World's Worst...

2007-04-24T00:11:00Z

It seems no one wants to play the Bad Lyrics game... no matter.

How about a round of World's Worst?

I give you a profession, and you've gotta come up with a line of dialogue uttered by the World's Worst example of said profession. Hence the name of the game.

Here's the profession:

World's Worst... Chef.

Okay, I'll start you off with a few...

"No, that's not parmezan. I have eczema."
"What do you mean, 'you spell Coq au Vin with a letter Q'?"
"Hello, I'm English." (Had to say that before some other swine beat me to it.)

Your turn!

---

I'm serious as cancer, when I say rhythm is a dancer

2007-04-23T18:28:15Z

Song lyrics... the last refuge of emo kids the world over.

Of course, not every line in every song is an elegant bon mot to spur your self-harming. Some lyrics are, frankly, ridiculous. My personal favorites on the Lyrical Wall Of Shame are noted in the title of this post, an eloquent and beautiful take on the pain of the Big C by Snap... but there are others.

"Hot Dog, Jumping Frog, Alberquerque." - The King of Rock and Roll, by Prefab Sprout
"We gonna love all our enemies, till the gorrilla falls off the wall." - Playing in the Sunshine, by the artist formerly known as The Artist Formerly Know As Prince.
"I don't want to see a ghost, it's the sight I fear the most, I'd rather have a piece of toast, and watch the evening news." - Life, by Des'ree. Man, that's bad.

I mean, I know songwriting is hard... I've tried it. My old band, Badger, weren't lyrical geniuses - we wrote a song called "Friday Beer" with the great break lyrics "Monday Tuesday Wednesday, Thursday Friday Beer! Saturday Sunday... and... other days, Beer!" - but at least we made a friggin' effort.

I'd like to know the worst lyrics you've ever had the misfortune to hear. The sublime,. the ridiculous (like the ones above), or the simply badly-crafted... come share your pain.

...

Strip 3 of Ungreatful Dead is now up! For those who've missed out, here's our blurb for the comic:

Tim Tyler, corporate drone, dreams of becoming a Rock Star. With help from the Ghost of Jimi Hendrix, and a host of others, his dreams may well come true!

Come visit the site, and vote for us! It's www.ungrateful-dead.com.

And bring me your terrible lyrics!

Craig

---

Java Help

2007-04-19T18:02:41Z

I'm looking at learning to programme in Java. I've no programming experience at all. Can anyone out there recommend a good How To Programme in Java book for absolute beginners?

Cheers!
Craig.

---

scouseboy @ 2007-04-19T00:20:00

2007-04-18T23:45:29Z

I suppose, when returning to LJ after a lengthy haitus, it is only prudent to come back with a bang. But what actually constitutes a bang in LJ-land? Let us review the options...

1: I could tell everyone about what I've been up to this past year.
Frankly, that'd be boring. And long-winded. Sure, I could make some wack-ass shit up, but I think you'd rumble me. I might get away with the first, but when you read of my second successful mission in which I destroy a Death-Star, you'd probably start asking difficult questions.

2: I could post a picture of my cock.
I'm sorry, but I'm English. It'd take a large quantity of cash and/or tequila to create the right conditions for the grand unveiling of my scouse mouse. To be honest, I'm sure only scarletdemon would be interested, and even then it'd be through a sence of duty rather than genuine desire.

3: I could post some memes.
If the internet is the bowels of the world, then LJ is the large intestine and memes are the sphincter. I for one refuse to pucker up, thank you very much, lovely new features or no lovely new features.

4: I could choose a popular LJ cliche, and then pander to it.
Heh. Now we're talkin'.

But of the vast collection available, which cliche should I choose?
I smile to much to be an angsty emo-kid.
I haven't got a digital camera (save the crap one on my phone), so I can't take a picture of myself from a quirky angle.
I don't know the lyrics to any song except Right Said Fred by Bernard Cribbins.
I could become smushy over my ladyfriend thestalkycop, but if I did she'd be the first to call me a twatty ponce.

So I guess I'm left with the old standby... a picture of my cat.

I don't know why I drew that, to be honest... I think I'm going a bit peculiar.

Look, it's gonna take time to get back into the swing of things! I've been away a year!

...

The second strip of the Wayne and Craig Webcomic, Ungrateful Dead, is now online! Go read it if ya like. Don't worry, I'm not the artist.

Oh, and I'll be updating more regularly soon, hopefully daily once my chops are back... not just on comic update days. Just though y'all should know.

Craig

---

Scouse versus Scouse, part 3

2007-04-16T20:04:19Z

Hey Scouse, what's up?

Um... hello?

I said "Hey Scouse, what's up?"

Who is this?

Do we really have to go through this charade every time? It's the voices in your head, man!

Ah yes, I remember now!

At last... well, it's good to see that the year-long absence hasn't dulled your senses.

Has it really been that long?

Yup. One year and three months, to be exact. Why is that?

Because I hate everyone with the flaming passion of a thousand suns?

Nah, I don't buy it. You're not emo enough.

Because I've had nothing to say for nigh-on thirteen months?

I don't believe that for a second.

Because I'm a lazy sod whose job now involves reading and writing for many hours a day, thus rendering any further artistic pursuits in wordsmithery something akin to a dry slap to the danglesack?

Now we're getting somewhere! The dangleslap is a little Sad Kermit, but I suppose I can forgive you.

Careful now... I can make you hurt.

So what's this about a new job?

Actually, I've been doing it of over a year now, so it's hardly "new" to me. I'm the Managing Editor of StarCityGames.com!

StarCityGames.com? Is that a site about the silly card game that makes your mother cry?

Yup, Magic: The Gathering. The best game in the world, bar none.

And you're the Managing Editor, are you? So what's that about?

Well, I solicit, read, and edit strategy and flavor articles on M:TG from a number of professional and casual players, and produce a daily site-update at midnight EST.

Woah, hold on there, fella... "flavor?" "F-L-A-V-O-R?" Where's the missing "u"

The site is written in American English.

Christ, I've lost the will to live.

Tell me about it. I feel such shame. Especially now the word "colour" looks wrong to me...

So you commute to America each day? Blimey, that must play havoc with your schedule.

Nope, I work from home.

From home?

Yes, and it's BRILLIANT. Updating articles in the nude, watching Simpsons DVDs and eating Tiramisu while I work... there is no downside.

Thanks for that vibrant image...

Oh, behave yourself. You're still ME, remember? We look the same naked!

Double your horror, double your fun... Grim. Anyway, moving on... it sounds like you love your job.

Yup, it's wonderful. Brilliant people, entertaining work, open schedules, and getting paid for my interests. All good.

Getting paid for your interests... so I take it the job of Porn Intern fell through?

Har Har.

So what else is new in the House of Scouse?

I'm getting married!

Congrats! Who's the lucky fella?

Sigh... the lucky LADY is Sarah, a.k.a. thestalkycop. We've been together for over three years now.

Three years and she's not seen through your elaborate veneer? What is she, a retard?

No! (thinks) No.

Are you sure? If she's putting up with you, she must be a few mana short of a Dragonstorm, if ya get me.

Sarah is lovely, and sexy, and I'm a very lucky man. And that's the end of THAT.

It's obvious that you love her, mate. I'm only jokin' with ya. So how did you propose? Was it romantic?

... Yes. Yes it was.

It wasn't romantic at all, was it.

No.

So what happened?

We'd had a row, and she was dozing in bed. I lay down beside her, and popped the question. "Will you marry me, babe?"

And her reply?

"Of course I will, you daft bugger."

Aw, sweet!

That's one way to describe it, I suppose.

So when's the big day?

Next February, in Las Vegas. Hopefully.

Vegas, hey? Good work, sir! A marriage, a honeymoon, and the chance to play cards all in one! How the hell did you get her to agree to that?

It was all her idea, actually... a childhood dream of hers.

Really? She's got that much love for Elvis Impersonators?

Don't open that particular can of worms, thanks. She fears Elvis.

Rather a silly viewpoint since the guy's been dead for many years...

Agreed.

Having said that, Elvis is rather frightening if you think about it... EVERYONE would be scared of a fat bloke in a nappy bearing down on them.

I dunno, it didn't bother her last Saturday...

...

What?

That's too much information, man.

Sorry. Heh.

Moving swiftly on... anything else to report?

I'll be doling out the Scouseboy Sweetmeats in my own good mystical time, thanks. But I must tell you this... I'm the reigning English National Champion of Magic: The Gathering!

Seriously?

Yes!

Wow, I'm talking to the country's Biggest Nerd! I mean, I always suspected, but now it's official!

I don't care what you think, mum. I'm very proud! It qualified me for the World Championships in Paris last November.

Actually, that IS pretty cool. Did you do well?

No, sadly, I got battered.

Never mind, there's always next time.

Indeed.

English National Champion... I'll admit that the title does resonate with due majesty. Tell me, are the English a force on the International Magic Scene?

... Yes. Yes they are.

Excellent!

Yes it is.

So, Mr English National Champion, anything else you'd like to share?

One more thing... my good friend Wayne and I-

Wayne? Is he the fat lad with the long hair?

That's the fella... My good friend Wayne and I have started our own webcomic, called Ungrateful Dead. It went live yesterday, and the first strip is up!

A webcomic, huh? Jumping on that popular bandwagon...

With both feet, Mr Voice-In-My-Head.

So what's the webcomic about?

It concerns the life and times of Tim Taylor, a corporate drone who dreams of being a rock star. Sadly, these dreams seem fruitless... until he's visited by the Ghost of Jimi Hendrix, who urges him to form a band.

... They say "write what you know," I suppose.

Wayne and I have some great stuff planned, and we promise laughs aplenty and super-cool artwork.

Sounds interesting... what's the URL?

www.ungrateful-dead.com. Come visit!

I will do! But why the hyphen? Why not "ungratefuldead" ... ?

Because that particular domain was an extra £490.

A fine excuse, my friend.

Indeed.

Hang on a sec... you've a webcomic, yeah?

Well deduced, Quincy.

And you're the editor of a Magic: The Gathering website?

Yeah...

And you met your significant other on the Internet?

Yes...

And you wanna be a writer?

What's your point?

Are you The Ferrett?

That's it, you're outta here!

Wait, I didn't mean i- *snip*

...

...

...

Aaaaaah, blessed silence.

<exeunt>

----------

So yeah, the webcomic went live yesterday. I hope those who've popped over liked what they saw. There's some good stuff to come, and we're learning all the time... I hope everyone likes it.

Again, for reference, the URL is www.ungrateful-dead.com. Tell your friends.

----------

Yesterday, I had the pleasure of my sister Hannah's company. She came to Leeds for a shopping trip, and had my 4-year-old nephew Marshall in tow.

Marshall is a lovely little kid. Bright eyes, a mop of blonde hair, a button mushroom nose, and a cheeky smile. It was his birthday recently, and he was dressed as Spider-man for the day. Such innocence.

Anyway, Hannah and Marshall came over for lunch, and we had much fun playing silly childish games. Marshall was laughing ang giggling all afternoon.

Before they went, I fired up the webcomic. It's bright, and colorful, and Marshall loved it. He was full of questions, bless him. Inquisitive four-year olds usually are.

"Unca Craig," he asked, when looking at the comic, "What's that?"
"It's my comic, Marshall. Me and my friend made it."
"It's pretty!" he said. Bless.
"Thank you, Marshall! I'm just about to put it on the Internet, so my other friends can read it."

I'm not sure if he understood what the Internet was, but he nodded sagely.

"These are the forums," I told him, clicking a link. "That's were my friends can come and chat to me about the webcomic." Again, he nodded.
"Unca Craig," he asked, "Will your friends say nice things on the formums and tell you they like your comic?"
"I hope so," I answered, and his face lit up with a smile like an angel.

So remember folks, it's not for me...

... it's for Marshall.

Craig
www.ungrateful-dead.com

(Yeah, I went there.)

---

Hello!

2007-04-16T00:58:46Z

I've not posted for over a year. I know, I know. Actually, I meant to post an entry on the first anniversary of my disappearance, but I was ill (or lazy, can't recall which).

So why am I updating now? Because I have an announcement.

In collaboration with a good friend of mine, I've started a webcomic. It went live two hours ago, with the first strip. We have a two months worth of strips drawn in advance (which we'll be drip-feeding bi-weekly, published each Monday and Thursday), and we've got a lot of fun stuff planned. It's slightly weird with a grand dose of humour, and it's best viewed in 1024x768. Remember when I used to be funny? That was gas.

The url?

www.ungrateful-dead.com

Come and visit, and say hello in the forums!

~~The Ferrett~~ Craig "Scouseboy" Stevenson

PS- I plan on updating this blog regularly again, commencing tomorrow. After all, I need some vehicle for webcomic pimpage. Woohoo!

The War on Terror

2006-01-21T01:17:52Z

Today, at lunchtime, I visited a Muslim-owned Halal Fish n' Chip Shop in Leeds. I purchased two pieces of chicken and a portion of chips. My devout Muslim colleagues bought fish, and chatted with their friend who owns the business.

As we walked a weary mile back into the centre of Leeds, my friends told me something.

"That takeaway," they said, "was the local chippy for the Leeds contingent of the London Bombers."

Once they'd mentioned it, I recognised the street. I'd seen it on a few 'Aftermath' documentaries.

Apparently, the London Bombers were regular and valued customers, although no-one could tell me what their favourite dish was. Probably the Cod Scuffler, whatever that might be.

"If you feed a terrorist, or fund a terrorist... you're a terrorist." So says Mr Bush.

Today, I funded those who've fed terrorists. What the fuck does that make me?

...

At the moment, life is fantastic. I'll be back soon to tell you all about it.

By the way, you can all rest easy. Okay, so the nuns probably did see my cock, but they haven't renounced Jesus or started orgiastic rituals as a result. I'm sure the papers will pick up on it if they do.

How's that for a teaser?

Font Conundrum

2005-11-25T18:51:37Z

There is a font called Times New Roman

Here it is, in case you're unfamiliar. I'll stick with it for the meat of the post.

Today thestalkycop, while trying to avoid work, came up with the following point.

Who, in their infinite wisdom, decided that the lower-case 'a' in Times New Roman should come equipped with the squiggly wiggle on the top, while the italicised lower-case 'a' does not?

I smell a conspiracy.

Shop Names Needed

2005-11-23T00:29:57Z

On Sunday, while playing cards in the small village of Askern near Doncaster, I saw Mike Tyson.

The nature of his visit to the area is bizarre enough, but I'll not dwell on it. No, the fun comes in our conversations discussing the ear-chomping felon. I believe the important one went something like this:

Me: Heh. Imagine if Mike Tyson owned a pet shop. He could have a jingle that went "Fancy Pets by Tyson! We stock loads of mice n' rabbits too!"
Paul: He should own a vacuum cleaner shop called "Mike's Dysons."
Me: Or a hi-fi and amplifier shop called "Tyson's Mikes."

There must be comedy gold in this. Celebrity shops that incorporate their full names, or thereabouts. All I can come up with is Geoff Capes's bakery, called (unsurprisingly) "Geoff's Cakes."

Suggestions?

Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire

2005-11-18T20:41:10Z

I watched the third installment in the Harry Potter series, Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban, on the day of its release. At first, I was mildly placated. It was ok. Sadly, over time, I came to loathe its pretensions and needless flamboyance. Soon, it was cemented in my head as a flaccid cinematic abortion. Sorry, Alphonso, but you're shit.

Thankfully, I've never been a huge fan of the book. Of the six, it's possibly my fourth favourite, with only Chamber of Secrets (in which Rowling sees the sales figures of Harry Potter and the Philospher's Stone- sorry, Magic Rock and thinks "bloody hell, I'd best write a sequel") and Order of the Phoenix (I'll have Chicken Satay with Fried Rice please) finishing lower in the pecking order. Though if I'm honest, it's only Order of the Phoenix which is a Bad Book.

Today, I went (with the lovely thestalkycop, as part of my birthday celebrations) to see Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire, which is my favourite book of the series by a huge margin.

I'll level with you: I was scared.

Scared that it wouldn't live up to the hype.
Scared that it'd dwell on inconsequence, and overlook scenes of import.
Scared that it'd follow the inevitable Law of Diminishing Sequels and fail miserably.
Scared that they'd employed that buffoon Cuaron to help, and hadn't told anyone for fear of lynching.

Now, I've seen it. My reaction?

So now you know.

Oh yeah, and Hagrid dies near the end of the film.
Don't worry, he doesn't really die.
(Yes he does).

Hello.

2005-11-13T21:40:08Z

I should be doing NaNoWriMo at the moment, but I'm finding cruel and unusual ways of avoiding it. So far, I'm up to around 8000 words, which is nowhere near where I need to be. It doesn't help that my erstwhile companion, thestalkycop is approaching 45000 words. I don't care, all my words are hand-crafted from diamonds, each lovingly dictated by a vampire Jesus, or something.

Anyway, I've done a webcomic. I may do more, as it's fun, or I may not bother, as it's shite.

Here it is:

The full-size version can be found here. Don't rush, it's just bigger and not better.

I think I'm going a bit peculiar, to be honest. Must be that bird flu I've been hearing so much about.

A question

2005-11-08T16:20:22Z

Hello.

Anyone know of an internet resource that allows me to access UK TV listings from the late seventies?

Cheers.

NaNoWriMo

2005-11-01T23:50:42Z

This year, I'm doing NaNoWriMo. I'd link to their web-page, but I suspect most people on LJ know what NaNoWriMo is already.

It's a catalyst for me, I think. A kick-start, getting me writing novel-length fiction like wot I always sed I wud do. I plan to do the obligatory 50k in November, and then progress to finish the first draft by Christmas (barring fires, floods and Evil Santa Chaos).

I also plan on posting a little more to LJ (yeah yeah yeah), and will be addending my NoNoWriMo word count bar to all my November posts like a good little memesheep. Also, any NaNoWriMo-centric entries will behold the Scouse Keyboard icon as displayed here, allowing you to scroll past without too much hassle.

So, day one. How am I faring?

4 / 50,000
(0.0%)

And one of them is the word 'The'.

Ah well, the night is young...

EDIT:

1,027 / 50,000
(2.1%)

That'll do for tonight. Bye!

Ten Things That Scare Me More Than Halloween

2005-10-31T18:49:32Z

1: Rowlf. Why? Haven't a fucking clue. But when I was a nipper, he scared the actual shit out of me. The other Muppets were fine, but this carpet-based canine pianist made me howl. Cowering and crying was commonplace whenever the poo-brown glove-puppet tinkled the ivories.

2: Moths. I detest the way they fly, without rhyme or reason, tumbling and spinning toward my face as if it shone like a charged bulb. I mistrust things that move in an unnatural, erratic fashion. Therefore, Samara from The Ring was particulalry unnerving. At least that bitch didn't fly.

3: Dying young. I'm out of shape, I eat badly, I've recently started smoking after eight months abstinence. I need to lose weight and lower my cholesterol. No jokes here.

4: Authority Figures. Bank Managers, Landlords, Policemen, Teachers... anybody with a uniform. This is probably something to do with being English. After all, you Yankee-doodles out there would probably punch the Pope if he parked in your spot. Me? Even if I'm in the right, I apologise. I'm getting better, and crankier, with age... those in authority are often a little younger than me. And if my younger brother can become a Policeman, then there's really nothing to fear. After all, he's just as stupid as I am.

5: Horses I've dealt with those fuckers in this post. Melt 'em down, say I. The more glue the better. Once, in a Venice restaurant, I asked the waitress what the 'Horse with Spaghetti Ragu' actually was. She gave me a funny look, and said 'It's horse, in a spaghetti sauce.' To be honest, it was a little rich for me. I preferred the 'Donkey with Spaghetti Ragu' I ordered the following day. Two down, millions to go...

6: Mediocrity.I want to do things, create things, experience things, live things. In fact, you can safely assume that my life is very 'things'-oriented. I want to win Oscars, write novels, direct films, have Number One Hit Albums, win Pro Tours, play footie for England (a long shot now I'm nearing 32, but I can dream). I fear getting stuck in a rut (which I have been for some times, in certain directions), floudering on the work-eat-sleep treadmill. After all, the only difference between a rut and a grave is the size of the hole.

7: Being Proved Wrong. I know this'll sound arrongant, but I think I'm great. I'm funny, intelligent, talented and creative. Sure, I'm a fat goggle-eyed geek with little dress-sense and a ginger beard, but I'm still one of the better people I know. I've a gift for words, and plan to be a famous writer. I think I'll succeed. The thing is, I'm never motivated enough to give it the my full attention. Why? Because I don't want to be proved wrong. There are thousands of unpublished novelists out there... am I destined to be another? It's something I'm dealing with, but sometimes the Green Mile is long. I'm knuckling down and writing the fucker at the moment, which is the first step. As for the second, and third... who knows?

8: My Stomach. It makes noises. Scary noises that sound like demons laughing. Noises that can wake me from my sleep, so loud they can probably be heard from space. One night, lying alone in bed, my stomach was gurgling and giggling like Jimi Hendrix's guitar. I stroked and patted my fleshmelon, and whispered restful lullabyes. "Quieten down, my fine stomach," I soothed. "There is no stomach, only Zuuuuuul," came the unsettling reply from the dark acidic depths. I slept with the light on for a week. It must be all the horse and donkey I eat.

9: Patrick Moore. I mean Jesus Christ, just look at him! If he doesn't scream Insane Bond Villain at you, I don't know who will. He's spent his entire life looking up at the stars. Why? He's awating the invasion fleet of his Galactic Overlords, that's why!

10: Charlie. He's a Hubba-Bubba Nightmare.

(idea stolen from scarletdemon)

So, what are your fears this Halloween?

---
ps: Hello!

Steve

2005-09-01T17:53:06Z

For thestalkycop, with love...

Steve

There once was a friendly young wombat named Steve-
His story is one you'll find hard to believe-
A fearless young wombat of fame and reknown,
Our Steve was the largest young wombat in town!

Tipping the scales at some four-hundred pound,
His oversized footsteps left cracks in the ground!
He measured three metres from whiskers to tail,
A hirsuit humungous marsupial male!

Yes, this was a wombat of unnatural size,
But here is a fact that may cause some surprise:
Steve was a mammoth, on that we agree...
But he was as gentle as gentle can be.

His favourite hobby was hardly befitting
A wombat so large: he was nuts about knitting!
When Steve wasn't blissfully crochetting mittens,
He'd happily pore over photos of kittens.

But life wasn't always marshmallows and roses.
The other young wombats all looked down their noses
And called him rude things, like "wobbly fool,"
(And other such names that were equally cruel).

Steve blocked his ears, took it all on the chin,
But there's only so much you can mask with a grin.
He'd laugh at each insult and shrug off each goad,
Yet deep down inside, he felt fit to explode!

One morning, while shopping for knitting supplies,
The taunts of his peers brought fresh tears to his eyes.
Surrounded by wombats who pointed and jeered,
His gentle demeanour just plain disappeared.

"Now listen to me!" he started to bellow,
"I'm quite a large chap, and I'm not always mellow!
"Your taunts are destroying my psyche in fractions.
"One more, and I'll not be to blame for my actions!"

The silence that swallowed this scene was complete.
The shocked congregation were white as a sheet.
But as Steve concluded that no-one would speak,
One tiny voice said, "get lost you fat freak!"

On hearing these words, Steve's patience dissolved.
One way or another, things would be resolved!
He rolled up his sleeves and charged into the crowd,
Displaying such speeds to make antelopes proud.

This wrecking-ball wombat threw punches and kicks,
Then added some headbutts and bites to the mix!
Blood and bone flew! The battle was gory!
Steve was a wombat consumed by his fury!

The smarter young wombats all turned tail and fled
(Much better be branded a coward than dead).
Steve and his rampage went on unabated,
Not even a hint showing when he'd be sated.

Steve upped the violence, fists and feet flying,
Concussing young wombats without even trying.
The carnage continued, Steve seeking release,
When suddenly, in swarmed the Wildlife Police!

"Stop there, young wombat!" one officer spat,
Weilding a truncheon and straightening his hat.
He pointed with pride at the badge on his chest.
"We're the Wildlife Police! You're under arrest!"

The Wildlife Police stood circling our giant
(Who suddenly didn't seem quite so defiant).
Surveying the scene in the harsh summer sun,
Steve let out a wail... "Lord, what have I done?!"

Steve was arrested and tossed in a cell,
His life soon becoming one long wombat Hell.
The guards were relentless, their punishment fitting...
Denying poor Stevie the pleasures of knitting.

His lawyers attempted to cut Steve a deal,
And get his conviction quashed on appeal.
They schmoozed with the judges and piled on the flattery...
But Steve was convicted of 'Assault and Wom-Battery.'

...

So Steve spent the rest of his days locked in jail,
And there we conclude our sad little tale.
But tales such as these often end with a moral...
So what can we learn from the big wombat's quarrel?

First, keep your tempers well under control:
As flying off the handle can cost a large toll.
Smile in the face of intense provocation:
Thus you'll avoid lengthy incarceration.

And second: if tempted to taunt someone strange,
Resist it or face retribution deranged.
Be kind to the fellow whose face doesn't fit...
He may be a wombat who just loves to knit.

...

...

the end.
-------------------

(That took most of the morning. Christ, I'm rusty).

Scouse versus Scouse, part two.

2005-09-01T00:02:01Z

psssst...

Hmm?

Pssssssssst!

Whassat?!

It's ME again, the voice in your head!

The voice in my head?

Y'know, the one from this post from a while back!

Oh, I remember you! Christ, it's been ages! What have you been up to?

This and that, this and that... most recently, I've been sneaking into the hotel rooms of the Australian Cricket Team while they're sleeping, and shouting "WAKEY WAKEY" down their earholes.

LOL. Keep up the good work. Hang on a minute, did you speak in Link a minute ago?

Link?

Yeah... Link.

So what if I did? At least I didn't actually say 'LOL.'.

Good point well made, my friend.

Anyway, to business... what gives, man?! You've not updated in a codger's age!

I did! I said something silly about Tom Hanks.

That doesn't count, and you know it. C'mon, what have you been up to?

Ok, ok... if you must know, I've quit my job.

Quit your job? Off to pastures new, are you?

Erm... no.

You mean to say you've left gainful employment without another job to go to?

In a nutshell, yes.

Wow. Before this, I only assumed you were crazy. Now I have proof.

Back the truck up there, Sparky. I don't actually leave until the 16th of September. Besides, I have my reasons.

Do enlighten us, oh Omni-Scouse.

Ok...

It is a low-paid, dead-end job with no prospects.

While I have fun with the closest folk I work with, most of the others in the firm are complete cunts.

I am sick to fucking death of lugging boxes up and down stairs all day.

I'm going on holiday for a fortnight at the end of September, and didn't have the days left to cover it... so the timing seemed right.

I'm looking for work in a number of areas, and have some promising leads. I'm confident of finding full-time employment on my return from holiday.

I've done next-to-nothing on my true goal of becoming a writer. I needed a self-administered kick-up-the-arse... so voila!

If all else fails, and I have no permanent work to return to, I can always go back to temping (with a minimal dip in my salary).

Will that do ya?

Good reasons indeed, Mr. Scouse. And splendid use of vocal bullet-points, if I may be so bold.

You may be as bold as you like, my good man.

No need to get cocky.

Sorry.

Are you scared, though? Of having no work? Of being a poor and desolate tramp, drinking meths and shouting a stray dogs?

Nah. Let's face it, I've walked out of far better jobs than my current one, and I've always survived. This one'll be no different.

I do hope so.

I'm concentrating on my writing, anyway. I plan to have my novel finished by Christmas.

Yeah, you say that every year...

This time, I MEAN it!

Woah there, fella! Less of the formatting overload! I believe ya!

I've been thinking a lot lately. About the future, y'know...

Christ, here it comes. Don't go all goth on me...

I'm sick of earning the bare minimum. I'm tired of being broke for three weeks out of every month. I'm bored of doing menial tasks in a menial job, coming home tired and irritable. In many ways, I'm sick of my life.

Aw, d'ya wanna biscuit, Emo-Kid?

Piss off. I know I've many great things going for me, too.

Such as?

Well, there's Sarah for a start. That's thestalkycop in case you've forgotten. Things are still going well in that arena.

You do things with Sarah in an arena?! That must be liberating.

And of course, there's our holiday plans for the end of September-stroke-beginning of October... We're off to Florida for two whole weeks!

Christ! How did you pull that one off?

We're going out there with Sarah's mum.

Two weeks with the mother-in-law? Rather you than me, mate.

Mother-in-law Bashing? How very 'Seventies'. What's next, are you going to run through my mind being chased by Benny Hill dressed as a milkman?

Hardly. I was just making a point, that's all.

We're all looking forward to the trip, and I'd thank you not to put a downer on it. We've got so much planned. We're hooking up with seeksadventure, a.k.a Sarah's friend Carla. We're going to hit all the theme parks, do all the touristy things. And I'll even get to play a little Magic while I'm there.

It all sounds splendid, I'm sure. You'll have a great time.

I think we will, yes.

Well, it's been a blast, as always. Will you be sticking around, updating the old LJ with more regularity?

I hope to. It's been far too long.

It can never be 'far too long,' mate. I'm sure Sarah would agree with me there...

OI! Back off, nobbo.

Sorry.

So what next for you? Got any good jobs lined up?

Not really. Here's where I'd usually make a joke about the current news in America... y'know, hit the topical buttons, go out with a bang. But this time... there are simply no words to say.

Very true, very true...

Let's just give our good wishes to those affected, and leave it at that. Agreed?

Agreed.

[silence]

[exeunt]

Boooooooooooored.....

2005-08-30T22:41:08Z

When Tom Hanks sends out an email, does he sign off with:

Thanks,
T. Hanks.

????????

A Night of Magic

2005-07-16T00:23:13Z

Half an hours walk through a rough area of Leeds, in the dark. My eyes flitting left, right, cars weaving past, flashing lights, drunken yells. Taxis, lots of taxis. The neon of cab-ranks, lap-clubs, kebab-houses. One hand on my heart, one on my mobile.

All for Harry fucking Potter.

I arrived at 23:46, fifteen minutes to spare, joining the rear of a twenty-strong queue. The Leeds branch of Waterstones sits in the centre of the city, a main thoroughfare for shoppers by day and boozers by night. The night was heaving, lurching with conflict, as we the members of the Potter Fan Club avoided everyone, especially each other. The queue grew steadily, as did the taunts of the pub-strewn boors. Admittedly, some were quite amusing, given the circumstances.

"Harry Potter? He used to work in our chippy."
"Harry Potter is at WH Smiths! You're all missing him!"
"You'll get it much cheaper from Asda, you know."

Most, though, were offensive, even angry. As if we were physically hurting people by queueing for a book.

"Harry fucking Potter? You're queueing for Harry Fucking Potter?" said the blonde man with a lager-stained t-shirt. "Bunch o' cunts."
"What the fuck are you doing?" said the angry man with the cigarette. "I mean, the Good Sex Guide I'd understand, but fucking wizards? Haven't you heard of shagging?"
"Go home, you sad fucks. Stop fantasizing," said the off-the-shelf skater-punk. "Live your own lives, people!"

We took their taunts, and sucked them in. We even believed some of them. I mean, it's Friday night. It's a kid's book, and the youngest person in the queue wasn't a day under twenty. And when all's said and done, there's no such thing as magic.

The atmosphere wasn't pleasant. We were nerds, and we were losing. The Muggles were bludgeoning us with ham-fisted malice, and our wands were as wonky as one of Weasley's Wizard Wheezes. Voldemort was laughing at us, in our face and in our heart.

Then, it all changed.
Dumbledore appeared.

She was only eight, maybe ten, and she was accompanied by an adult, but she was Dumbeldore all the same. Purple robes, wizened wand, pointy hat, whispy beard... the queue melted as one. The drunken tirades dried immediately: it would take a supremely hard heart to ruin the magic for this tiny wizard. Sly comments were whispered, but the queue rounded on the naysayers without quarter. It's true, what they say about Albus Dumbledore... he inspires confidence, strength. It ran through us all, our eyes shining. The only man Voldemort ever feared.

We laughed, we joked, we enjoyed the wait, untainted by the scorn of the non-believers. It was as it should be.

Maybe there was magic in the air after all.

...

Here is a picture of the Little Dumbledore. Forgive the quality, it really doesn't do her justice.

And bizarrely, the queue also held two identical bowlheaded, ginger, beanpole teen boys... who hadn't come as the Weasley Twins.

Right, that'll do. See you in a few days, when I'll be immune to spoilers.

Radio Scouse Invisibule

2005-07-14T15:23:33Z

If anyone can stream/record BBC Radio Leeds, I should be getting interviewed very soon (ie in the next half hour) regarding M:TG. I reckon I'll sound like a twat. It's all pre-recorded and thus I'll be listening with a cynical ear.

Don't say I didn't warn you.

EDIT: Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha, fucking seemless.
He actually put my soundcheck mic-level test on the air. That was brilliant. But NOTHING beat the intro:

"Next, we chat to a West Yorkshire chap who went to a big event in London this weekend," followed by a advert for a documentary on the bombings.

Of course, I sounded like an arse, but then that's just me. And I reckon that's the first time any radio DJ has said the words 'Brutal Deceiver.'

Scouseboy Calling

2005-07-10T18:50:21Z

Hi, I'm scouseboy. You may remember me from such posts as The Writing Group and Being Brought Low By Alcohol. I used to write, and I used to be funny. Not any more, sadly. I've only posted three times this year, and two of them were rubbish.

I spent this last weekend in London, travelling down from Leeds on the fateful thursday that included the bombings. Of course, I wasn't near the horror. I'm not dead, or injured, or missing. Which is, of course, a bonus.

I was travelling to the Big City to take part in Magic: The Gathering's latest Pro Tour event. It was also a fine time to catch up with friends. Here are some points of (possible) interest on my trip

On Thursday 7th, all trains and buses into London were cancelled. I had a scheduled 4-hour journey from Leeds into London Victoria which fell by the wayside. Luckily, I managed to re-scehdule my journey free of charge, being delivered to Luton in a little over seven hours. As Luton is was nearer my intended destination (Stevenage, and the home of my brother), then no harm was done.

During my journey, I struck up a conversation with a similarly-afflicted traveller while we languished on a 2-hour delay in Nottingham.
"You'd think," he spat, flecks of anger spittling his puckered mouth, "that the National Express Coach Company would have a Policy in place for times like this."
"A policy?"
"A Policy. A policy of customer care. These delays are ridiculous."
Of course, I nodded and ummed and ahhed, but I think he was probably the biggest cunt I've met for quite some time.

For those Magically inclined who'd like to chart my progress, this Pro Tour was the third straight that saw me post a 3-3 record. Four wins needed for day two action, and I fall short by one. I lost all my matches 2-1, and won 2 of my 3 wins 2-0, leaving me a win-loss game score of 9-7. Thish means nothing, of course. I'm quickly coming to the conclusion that my role in the game of Magic is to make the other contestants look good. At that, I'm world-class.

I caught up with some old friends, and made some new ones. Catching up with my brother was fun (as usual), and hooking up for drinks with nuala and Andrew, mixedknuts and leanerbean, tweezlebum and paranoidandroid was much fun. Guinness was quaffed, and squiggly oriental foods were devoured. A fun time was had by all, I hope. It certainly was had by me.

On departing for our train to Stevenage after these revels, My brother and I had tremedous luck. Arriving at Warren Street, we made our weaving way to platform two, only to find it desolate. Over the tannoy came our own personal announcement: "if the blokes on platform two want to get home tonight, they'd better run round to platform five as the last train of the evening departs in thirty seconds." A quick sprint later, and we were safe. The rest of the journey was spent in a deep philosophical discussion over who is the hardest person in the world of entertainment today. We came up with Bruce Willis, and maybe Russell Crowe. Any advances on these two?

One casualty of this evening was my mobile phone. I've lost it, and quick calls to all our jaunts in the cool of day proved frietless. Being a man, and therefore stupid, I've no paper copy of my friends and family's contact details. Anyone who wants to give me their phone numbers, please send them to scouseboy@gmail.com. I'll be getting a new phone as soon as pay-day staggers into view.

I'll update with something more fun soon, I'm sure. But then again, I always say that. I'm still reading on LJ, at least that's something in my favour.

I'm off. I've burgers to cremate.

The Night of the Comet (part three)

2005-03-23T00:40:30Z

Part one is here.
Part two is here.

...

I felt that, if my gaze lingered on one spot for too long, I would be knifed. Even Lewis, my policeman brother, looked scared. But then, this was understandable: the Comet was the kind of establishment where the police were definitely not welcomed. If the regulars knew of Lewis's profession, then we could expect the worst.

"We're just staying for one, yeah?" asked my brother, as we readied ourselves for introductions. Over a cacophony of horror, we each gave a determined nod.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered to Sarah. She looked terrified.

Pete approached, hand outstretched.
We braced ourselves, and smiled.

"Hi!" he said, shaking each of our hands in turn. His grip was strong, and his fingers dripped with gold.
"Hi," we droned, shell-shocked by our surroundings. Music thumped through us, thumping drums the backdrop to our meeting.
"Sorry about this place," he barked, battling against the bassline. "It's a bit rowdy tonight!"
There was desperation in his eyes.
"This is Edna, my mother," he continued. We all shook hands again.
"Do you work in here a lot?" asked my sister.
"Quite a bit, yeah," he answered. Behind him, two lemon-mouthed women were eyeing his karaoke equipment with ill-disguised avarice. "I can't stop to chat," he continued, panicking a little. "Busy busy busy!"

He gave us a little wave, and shimmied back to work.

"Let me buy everyone a drink," said Edna, opening her purse. Although a round would most likely decimate her pension, we could hardly refuse. The ordering began.

Pints and shorts were purchased. I myself partook of half a lager, not wishing to dally in such a viper's nest. Sarah ordered orange squash. Her drink was tepid, tasting of cheap chemicals, and served in a dirty half-pint glass. But of course, this can happen in a number of drinking dens: after all, orange squash isn't exaclty a hostelry staple.

Emily, my brother's partner, ordered a glass of dry white wine.
"Do you want ice in that, love?" droned the barmaid.
"Erm... no thanks," said Emily.

Ice.
In wine.
Served in a cloudy, thumb-smudged half-pint lager glass.

Emily was out of her element. She's a lady who was a little too refined for the Comet. To be honest, she's probably a little too refined for my brother, but that's more his failing than hers. She drank her drink with a wan smile.

Meanwhile, my mother was ploughing through the proud parent routine, the hard-of-hearing Edna clinging to every word. Or trying to hear above the karaoke, at any rate.
"This is Hannah, my youngest, and her boyfriend Steve" she bellowed. "They made me a grandmother with little Marshall!"
"Hannah, Steve, yes," said Edna, making mental notes and mugging like a pro. Hannah and Steve said hello.
"This is Craig, and his girlfriend Sarah," my mother continued over the din. As usual, she floundered to find superlatives for my charater. "He lives in Leeds," she offered. I smiled. It was the best she could do.
"Craig, Sarah, yes," said Edna. We shook her hand dutifully.

As my mother passed over me, I began to glance around the Comet. With a sip of my beer, I began to mellow. Sure, everyone in here was probably on crack, and would gladly stomp on your windpipe for twenty pee... but it wasn't that bad. The music blared, and the punters prowled... but the fights they sought seemed largely among themselves. The place had a seemingly endless supply of criminal types, but if we kept our wits we'd likely be fine. We were outsiders, and thus we were feared... but maybe this would be our armour. Yes, there were bloodstains on the walls, and the jukebox was smashed... but if we drank our drinks and kept our hands by our sides, we'd probably get out alive.

I smiled, slightly. Maybe this could be fun.

"This is Lewis," said my mother to Edna, pride plastered across her face like so much cheap mascara. She raised her voice, so Edna could hear. "Lewis is a policeman."

...

...

I'll not lie to you, folks.
It was not fun any more.

...

...

There was a pause, a terrible terrible pause, as my mother's ill-advised words entered the aether. My brother stiffened, a plastic smile stapled to his face, while all the while his eyes darted this way and that. Had they heard? Who had heard? What was happening? Where was the exit? Where was the most defensible spot? His police-instilled paranoia kicked on like a thermostat, click click.
"Lewis, yes," said Edna, oblivious. Hannah turned to Steve.
"Call a taxi," she said. Steve disappeared.

We stood there, uncertain, and the music played loud.

"What's the matter?" asked Mum, her blunt question cutting the pregnant air like a laser. We said nothing. All the time we were watching, waiting for a sign, waiting for the moment when one of the locals would stand, knife drawn, and bawl "PIG" at the top of his lungs.

We were going to die. It was a certainty.

Yet as we waited, baited and confused, we realised... no-one really cared.

People had heard the statement- my mother's voice was as clear as a midnight bell- but their reaction was invisible. Whether this was due to the alcohol, or the Season, or the fact that the situation was patently ludicrous remains to be seen. Perhaps they could not parse the comment, as it seemed a grand absurdity. A policeman in the Comet? Surely some mistake!

Eyes flickered to us, of course. There were whispers, and a few pointings, but nothing explicit or threatening. It was as if they'd noticed something a little bizarre about one of us, but something ultimately mundane. You see that guy over there? He's got three fucking nipples!

Of course, with the benefit of hindsight, it's relatively easy to guage the reaction and temprament of the more battle-scarred locals. It was New Year's Eve. Everyone was a little drunk, and probably tired after Christmas. We were on their 'manor.' People stared, but it was a stare of irritation rather than anger.

Just fuck off, will you? their glares seemed to say. It's New Year's Eve, and we want a good time AWAY from all that shit. We don't come down to your police station and piss on your potted plants, do we? So leave us the fuck alone.

Slowly, steadily, we began to breathe. We we safe. For how long remained a mystery.
"Taxi's here," said a returning (and relieved) Steve, rendering the mystery moot.

We hammered back our drinks and left like lightning.

...

I feel there should be a moral to my tale, a message we can all learn. Something warming from which we can all grow as people.
But frankly, it's late, and I'm tired. I've not updated in a donkey's age, so forgive me if I'm a little out of practice.

So I'll spare you the 'don't judge people by their appearence' finale, and the 'underneath, we're all just brothers' home-run tag-line.

Instead I'll say this: when faced with family gatherings you'd rather be skipping, just kiss your granny and bear it.
At least you're not at the Comet, drinking white wine with ice and avoiding the stare of an angry thug with 'FISH' and 'CHIPS' tattooed on his knuckles.

And next time you're in Birkenhead, I'd steer clear of the Comet.
Apparently, it's gone downhill since our visit.

The Night of the Comet (part two)

2005-03-22T20:00:48Z

Part one can be found here.

...

"What's the Comet like, Mum?" we enquired. Birkenhead has its fare share of dodgy dives.
"Well, it's a bit 'rough and ready' but it's not too bad."

"Sounds fun," we said. "It's a date."

So off we went, that New Year's Eve... to the original Pub from Hell.

The Comet, we soon discovered, squats near Birkenhead Park, its grimy windows staring out across the rougher side of town. The building itself is square, detatched from the surrounding red-brick dwellings with an inexplicable arrogance, almost proclaiming its independance with a can of lager in its hand. It is found at the corner of a busy street, glaring at the traffic lights and leering at the passing talent. It's a drinker's pub. It's a drunkard's pub, a local pub for local people. The building itself seems drunk: lurching, hard-lived and spoiling for a fight. The pub has a face, scarred and age-addled, tattooed in tarnished gold with letters two-foot-tall... The Comet.

And I saw all this from the fucking taxi.

On the pavement outside the entrance, stood a large-ish man in a track-suit. Gold rings garotted his pudgy fingers, cutting off the circulation, soverigns sparkling against speckled skin.
"I don't care where she is," he barked into a tiny mobile phone. "Go and fucking get her, now."

We passed him in silence.

On entering the pub, we passed through a boxy 'foyer,' no more than fifteen foot square. Heavy flock wallpaper was sliced in two by a highly-glossed dado rail, with the obligatory 'light-high, dark-low' paint scheme. The paper was aged with smoke and neglect, almost slimy. It hung from the wall in places, tatty dog-ears, depressing and ugly. Dog-eared paper, dog-eared lives.

Beneath our feet, the threadbare carpet sucked our every step like a hungry infant. It was the kind of place in which you wiped your feet when you left.

Still, bravery was in order. We shouldered down, and passed through the wooden door into the bar itself.

Sadly, Sarah and I were at the rear of the procession into the Comet. Consequently, we only heard the pint-glass shatter against the scuffed formica table. We did, however, see the first stirrings of the fight, as those splashed by the boozy detritus stood to face down those who did the flinging. As we passed the proposed punch-up, with glares and stares and sweary threats jostling our bowed heads, the barman made his presence felt. He addressed the packed pub.

"Was that smash an accident, or was it a glassing?" he drawled, his voice world-weary from countless days such as these. His remarkable laissez faire attitude was chilling.

We made our way to the bar and levellled ourselves against it, battened for conflict should the need arise. With a breath, we took in our surroundings.

The Comet was shit.
Yes, it was packed. In fact, it was heaving. But it was shit nonetheless.

The bar-room itself was small, and smoke hung in the air. The whole place stank of stale ale, and cigarettes. There was the faint tinge of marijuana, and the acrid stench of piss. Tables and chairs, fag-damaged and battered on the shiny black carpet, seemed strewn with little rhyme or reason, occasionally lying on their side like wounded soldiers. We stood by the edge of the bar, near a tiny alcove that both led to the toilets and housed Pete the DJ. The light above his head was broken. He gave us a pained smile and continued working, smiling as three teenage harpies with drawn-back hair and pinched faces committed karaoke murder on some insipid RnB dirge.

My mum moved to chat to Pete, who had inexplicably brought his aged mother to the pub. The rest of us looked at each other, feeling intense discomfort. For a start, we were all overdressed. Not that we looked particularly natty, you understand: I wore jeans and a shirt. However, it appeared we were the only people in the Comet with collars, or cuffs.

The clientelle of the Comet were... how shall I put this... of a certain type. The older patrons had lived hard lives, and their woes played out on ther faces and bodies like Grand Opera. They generally sat in silence, cradling their booze as if it were their baby. The younger patrons, however, did not seem content to let the world wash over them. They numbered the majority of the custom in the Comet, and the mood was dark because of it. The women wore make-up and cheap gold, and favoured thick belts instead of skirts. Some wore sweat-pants and belly-tops, rolls of pale and stretch-marked skin acting like pokes to the eye. They screamed across the pub at each other with little cause.
"MICHAAAAY-LAAAAA! Lend us a quid, will ya!"
The men, in their track-suit trousers, their tight t-shirts, their baseball caps and their gold, looked ready and willing to attack everything that moved. Each looked shifty, as if they were committing crimes at they simply stood and drank their pint. Some strutted around the pub, bumping into anyone that dared take up space. The pub was rife with tiny conflicts, resolved and rekindled in an instant.

All the people in the Comet had 'a problem.' All harboured some deep-set, undisclosed grudge against the World.
This was not a friendly place. Simply looking at things could be considered an insult.

I felt that, if my gaze lingered on one spot for too long, I would be knifed. Even Lewis, my policeman brother, looked scared. But then, this was understandable: the Comet was the kind of establishment where the police were definitely not welcomed. If the regulars knew of Lewis's profession, then we could expect the worst.

The karaoke carnage continued. Around us, people shouted and brawled. Mum aproached, flanked by Pete and his mother. They were smiling, a little too readily.

"We're just staying for one, yeah?" asked my brother, as we readied ourselves for introductions. Over a cacophony of horror, we each gave a determined nod.
"I'm so sorry," I whispered to Sarah. She looked terrified.

Pete approached, hand outstretched.
We braced ourselves, and smiled.

...

Part three (the final part) to follow later this evening

(Heh. This is turning into something more than I intended. Sorry about that).

The Night of the Comet (part one)

2005-03-22T16:04:25Z

My mother has spent the majority of my life thus far assuming that I'm gay.

Of course, this doesn't bother me too much. Sure, it indicates that my mother has little grasp of my true nature, but it also indicates that she has never found my secret cache of pornography secreted at the family home. Swings and roundabouts, I'm sure you'll agree. I take the odd loaded comment with a modicum of grace.

It all stemmed, you see, from my first real crush. I was eleven, she was Christine. We were friends, playing Paperboy on her Spectrum 48k computer. We laughed, and fought, and frolicked. When I was with her, various things began to wobble. Things that, until then, only wobbled in my sleep.

One day, I casually mentioned my feelings to my mother and father.
Word to the wise: NOT A GOOD MOVE.

"Ooooooooh, Craig's got a giiiiiiirl-frieeeeeend!"
"Do you love her? Do you want to kiss her? I bet you do!"
"Christiiiiiine! What a lovely name! Are you getting married?"

Derision, constant, for weeks. Consequently, I never spoke of Christine again. Or the next object of my desire. Or the next. In fact, for many years, I never introduced any prospective girlfriends to my family. Not one. Not Paula, or Erica, or Jo, or anyone else. Of course, being a fat shy kid meant that there weren't many candidates to introduce, but you get my point.

Thus, with the streak continuing well into my twenties, my mother made certain assumptions about my sexuality. Assumptions that were harmless, though wildly inaccurate. Especially the assumption that I was a transvestite, stemming from the time she found a pair of (my then-girlfriend's) skimpy knickers in a bundle of my laundry.

Sooner or later, this trend had to end. And end it did, when I introduced my lovely ladyfriend Sarah (aka thestalkycop) sometime last year. Of course, everyone got on splendidly. Sarah was relieved that my family weren't girlfriend-eating zombie freaks, and my mother was relieved that she had proof I wasn't revelling in man-on-man bumfun.

Sarah and I last visited the Stevenson Family Mansion over the New Year. My mother was pleased to see us. Indeed, this was the first (and so far, only) time she had her three children and their partners together in the same place. In fact, we all had one-up on our beloved mumsy: we had yet to meet her current beau, a local pub DJ called Pete.

Being the proud parent, she planned a little get-together for New Year's Eve.
"Pete is really busy this time of year," she said, and we didn't argue. Being a pub DJ must be a largely seasonal occupation, unless you can rustle up a weekly Bar Mitzvah or two. "He's doing a set at the Comet on New Year's Eve. We can all go and meet him, yeah?"

We'd never heard of the Comet.

"What's the Comet like, Mum?" we enquired. Birkenhead has its fare share of dodgy dives.
"Well, it's a bit 'rough and ready' but it's not too bad."

We discussed our options, and quickly decided that the Comet was go! After all, there'd be seven of us: my brother, my sister and myself, our respective other-halves, and my mother.
Bring it on, we thought. We're the Stevensons! We can handle ANYTHING!
After all, if it came to it...my brother is a policeman, and a big one to boot. He can batter stuff.

"Sounds fun," we said. "It's a date."

So off we went, that New Year's Eve... to the original Pub from Hell.

...

Part two to follow later today.

(hello everyone. It's nice to be back.)

Greetings!

2005-02-23T19:13:42Z

Hello!

How are you today?

Have you lost weight? You're looking good! I like your hair, have you just had it done? Nice.

Anyway, yeah. I'm still here. Not updating as much as I'd like, but that'll hopefully change soon. I've things in my life, and they're important, so I'll soon be back.

Until I am, I'll just say that I'm happy, and everything is sweet.

Now... a challenge:

Today, my good lady (thestalkycop, who also doesn't update) and I were browsing in our local DVD emporium. Nothing was leaping off the shelves at us, probably because it was a DVD shop and not a ninja shop.

On the special-offer shelf, we saw one of those 'two-films-in-one-box' dvd offers. Something like 50 First Dates and The Wedding Singer. Two films with an obvious connection.

We got to thinking... what would be the worst two films to have in the same box? Two films with the least connection, or a tenuous, comedy connection, or just something silly.

We came up with a few, and we reckon they're winners...

The Mask, and Mask.
Seabiscuit and The Godfather.
White Men Can't Jump and Flubber.
Cannibal Holocaust and Bad Taste.
Idle Hands and Free Willy.
Gone in 60 Seconds and Dude, Where's My Car?.

So... any more?
A prize for the one that makes me laugh the most. Probably. If I can be arsed.